Moonlit Cords
by PeppermintPeople
Summary: She was an animal whose only purpose was to entertain. Now she is a master puppeteer, who walks a path far from humanity. They are her marionettes, bound to her by moonlit cords only she can see. rated T for paranoia but you be the judge :/


A burned and bleeding body, devoid of resistance, resigned to this living hell.  
Mocking sneers and contemptuous laughter.  
She is an animal whose only purpose is to entertain.  
The blood ('It is yours,' the sanity left to her murmurs) has crusted into scabs.  
She wishes for the impossible; mercy.  
No. Fire is not known for quick deaths.  
Days and nights merge into each other and the soothing face of the moon finds her.  
With the aid of her Mother, she finds the strength to cry, dry and helpless as it is.  
With the aid of her Mother, her hatred swells within her.  
She does not waste thought on hopeless miracles.  
She plans, ponders on a way to retaliate, fantasizes on the torture her wardens will receive.  
It is a child's fancy, she knows she cannot escape, but hope has her firmly in it's false grasp.  
One night a rat falls from above to the floor beneath her cage, burned and bloody.  
She can empathize with it but feels no pity.  
Her gaze falls to the rodent's blood.  
Liquid, something she can bend, something she can use ('No! A daughter of the moon is better than that! You bend water, not blood!' her sanity pleads frantically, but hatred has long since seized her mind).  
She stands shakily and raises her arms to once familiar positions.  
The red liquid comes willingly enough, she does not need to force it through the already opened flesh.  
It falls and so does her hope.  
The moon has given way to the sun and her strength is gone.  
When the moon returns she tries again with another rat and fails.  
Her Mother is not whole tonight so neither is she.  
Another night then.  
She can wait.

Her Mother rises, a serene orb promising peace and tranquility.  
She wonders if she is alone in seeing the other side of the moon's promise  
Her Mother promises and provides power for her children ('just as she will provide my strength tonight,' her battered mind muses).  
Her borrowed vitality seizes the rich liquid.  
The rat resists, however futile the effort is.  
She finds that she cannot peirce the flesh and draw it out of the rodent.  
She will settle for being a puppeteer.  
The small grey body is now hers.  
Her fingers meet and it emits a sound of pain.  
More puppets gather to her and she takes them all with ease.  
Their bodies twist and bend to the light fluttering of her fingertips, bound to her by moonlit cords only she can see.  
A hesitant smile graces her lips, the first in too long a time.  
The rats are dancing, a gruesome choreography just for her.  
A hesitant laugh graces her ears, voice hoarse from disuse but there is no mistaking her ecstatic tone.  
The rats are in a strange formation, splayed out before her in a mimicry of her fingers.  
A hesitant joy graces her being, the living hold no fear over her, she is their master and puppeteer.  
The rats' resistance is an insignificant shadow, her power over them is whole.  
The hesitance draws away from her.  
Her smile is wide and joyful.  
Her laugh is full and elated.  
Her joy is savage and pure.

A burned and bleeding body, devoid of submission, resolved to carry it out tonight.  
Vengeful sneers and triumphant laughter.  
She is a beast whose purpose is clear and whose decision will not be shaken.  
The blood ('Do not worry, you will draw theirs soon enough.' the mind soothes the impatient body) is dried and crusted beyond use.  
Her wish is no longer impossible; retaliation.  
Yes. Fire will always give way to water, and that is even thinner than blood.  
The days and nights have been leading up to these few hours of moonlight.  
The serene, whole face of the moon finds her and lends her its power.  
With the strength of her Mother, she seizes the vermin who holds the keys.  
With the strength of her Mother, she finds herself outside, standing above her sadistic guard.  
Her comb falls out from a hidden pouch.  
She picks it up gingerly, as if it is as fragile as the memories it holds.  
The man is still as a stone ('or a corpse,' she muses nonchalantly).  
Her hair is twisted up with fingers still remarkably nimble.  
Odd, she still remembers the mundane action.  
The process belongs to a pristinely white, soft, cold and comfortably familiar world.  
The man whines, a mistake, and her attention is reclaimed from her reminiscing.  
She leers and mocks and twists him.  
She nods, approving of the man's unnatural position.  
She mutes his cries with ease.  
Her torment was his joy.  
She feels elated, a gift granted to her by his pain.  
His torment is her joy.  
Roaring mirth in place of miserable howls.  
That is all that escapes her mouth now.  
Fear is not there to chastise her carelessness.  
No mere guard can stand against her.  
She will bind them all with her moonlit cords.  
Two guards rush to the sound.  
She motions with a finger and one stabs its comrade.  
While one bleeds to death the other will dance for her.  
Her hand comes alive as he steps and contorts to her rhythm.  
Her hands come alive as they stage a sword fight that is all too real.  
Her mirthful voice never dies or weakens.  
It cannot, not while she is being treated to this unique performance.  
She is special.  
A lone spectator to this savagely beautiful act, the lone genius behind it.  
Reason has given up trying to bring her back to humanity.  
Reason now strives to push her further away.  
Reason speaks; 'Escape now, while the night is young! Leave before your strength wanes!'  
She nods to herself and freezes the guard's throat.  
No one will speak of her cunning release.  
Running silently through a metal maze.  
Stiff and frozen bodies left in her wake.  
Somehow, a window finds its way to her.  
Somehow, she finds the courage to jump out.  
Somehow, she manages to subdue a multitude of the mail clad rats.  
She can control the little grey ones.  
What difference is there with these large ones?  
Four limbs, the number of ropes she uses does not change.  
She runs, dragging her marionettes with her.  
She runs until a new obstacle greets her.  
A new ledge , a greater height to leap from.  
A new ledge, harder to walk away from alive and unscathed.  
She shrugs.  
Her puppets will soften her fall.  
They jump, seemingly of their own volition.  
They jump until she is satisfied with the size of the mound.  
Then she jumps onto the cushion.  
Then she races forward.  
There are no backward glances to be gotten from her.  
She leaves her ropes behind her.  
She leaves her puppets bound and dying.  
She runs from her puppets and her ropes.  
She runs to new puppets and new ropes.  
She runs to her newfound freedom and newfound hope.

Sand greets her ravaged feet.  
A desert.  
A pit bereft of water.  
Despair latches its hook onto her heart and tugs.  
Fire is more likely to survive here than water.  
'but you are no longer mere water,' she purrs to herself, 'you are blood.'  
Blood, thicker and richer than pure, untainted water.  
Her Mother smiles down at her.  
Her Mother still aids her, even up to this moment.  
She will use her Mother's gift.  
She will not let it go to waste.  
She will press on.  
She may die under the stars and the sky before her Mother, but free and unbound, let her sorrows be laid to rest.  
She may also live, free and unbound, let her sorrows be sated.  
Her choice is easily made; she will live, if only to sate her sorrows.  
Sand is soft.  
The fact makes her laugh.  
The sound is untainted, that of pure joy.  
It is the first soft touch she has encountered since being ripped from her gentle and cold and bright world.  
It is the first soft touch she has encountered in so long.  
Sand is submissive, it gives way to her weight and caresses her soles.  
Sand is not snow, dry and warm and clay-hued.  
The fact laces her laughter with tears and her glee with bitter longing.  
But it is similar and that is enough.  
Sand whirls around her.  
It flies in still air, there are no gusts to stir it so.  
Sand is earth, albeit weakened.  
Figures wrapped in cloth make themselves seen.  
Sandbenders are Earthbenders, albeit diminished.  
She smiles.  
She is far from diminished.


End file.
